


On The Back of a Dead Turtle

by CravenWyvern



Category: Little Nightmares (Video Game)
Genre: Bizarre Dreams, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Death, Gen, Odd Children, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Short Stories, headcanons galore, light descriptions of gore, meltdowns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-05 20:04:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11585238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: The Maw is full of things, little and large and real and unreal.It's history is complex, twisted, in such a dysfunctional line that one cannot tell if tomorrow is today or has long passed by, and yet the inhabitants carry on with their lives as if they haven't noticed the little out of place things, the notchs in the wall or the dreams or the ever so familiar sense of forgetting something.(Short stories compiled from my askblog, not in any order and not making much sense)





	1. The Elusive Matsutake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Six and a Gnome

Scrambling through the crack in the wall, cone bending and limbs holding close to its body, the gnome stood in the soft light of the hidden rooms entrance for a moment. In its hands was its prize, a slightly squashed hunk of cheese, something easy and safe to snatch up off the floor of the giants dining chambers, and the gnome gurgled out a tiny crow of pride, cones trailing tail swishing back and forth as it looked for its friend.

A giant had almost taken its friend recently, had snatched right under the table they had been scavenging under, but then the giant had howled and flung the friend away, red marks covering the monster's flesh. The gnome had to drag its friend away from the thunder and for awhile they had hid, waiting for the shouting to stop.

But the gnomes friend was hurt, limping and holding an arm close to its chest, small cone wilting with the passing time in the dark, so of course the gnome made sure to go out and find food stuff for the both of them, made sure it's friend was hidden safely away.

It couldn't take risks for better things, warmer foods, but the floor was always littered and it was easier avoiding giant feet than giant hands.

The gnome gurgled out a call, looking about for their friend in the barely lit room. It took a moment for the confusion to set in, the gnome taking a few steps and calling again, waiting for a response.

When none came the gnome carefully set its catch down, now twittering quietly. Its friend was too badly injured to go off on its own! It should have stayed here, waiting for the gnome to come back like always. It was safe here, protected from angry giants.

For a moment there was silence, and then a sound. The gnome swung its coned head about, chirping softly at the familiar yet unknown sound. Its experience was limited, yet the noise was knowledge passed down through generations. The song of feast was an ingrained part of the world it lived in.

The darkest corner was obscure, light not quite reaching, but movement was there and the gnome quietly chirped again, a question of confusion.

Six stared at the pudgy creature, watched it waver and swing its head about, and her molars cracked down, breaking the fingers and thin wrist of the limb in her mouth (not bones, she thought, almost cartilage). The sound seemed louder than normal, and the gnome took a few steps forward, a low gurgle of a call escaping it.

After a moment Six reached out her free hand and pushed the corpse away from her, it's torn cone now in the dim light (it shouldn't have tried to run) and the gnome made a soft, faded sound, the slight hints of trembling in its shoulders.

Everything was still for a moment, Six sucking idly on the broken bits of woody flesh in her mouth, grinding teeth on the thicker cartilage bits, hand tight around the torn limb that dripped oily ichor on her feet, and then the gnome stumbled forward with a quiet distressed sound.

Six watched as it went to its knees, a trembling hand brushing the corpses cone before pulling back, and the gurgled wail from made her wince, free hand going to her hooded head. The sound didn't stop her chewing, but she scooted back a little, hitting the wall and leaning back, wiggling her sticky toes idly.

The gnome made another low sound, sad and slow, and its cone moved almost to look directly at her. 

Her voice usually escaped her, usually died in her chest, but she pulled the limb from her mouth for a moment and mumbled out something wispy and stiff.

“M’sorry.”


	2. The Fae Have Drowned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Granny and a Gnome

The water had shifted above her, frantic paddling and thrashing, bubbles and waves splashed about on the surface, and of course she went up to investigate. Such antics meant something down here, in the quiet darkness.

Long, brittle hands wrapping around the creature, dragging it down, down to face level, the odd smooth yet grooved texture of the pudgy thing something new, and The Granny peered closely at it's bizarrely shaped head. Small streams of tiny bubbles drifted from its cone, slipping out the sides and rising to the surface, the long slinky string from its head floating in the water and thin limbs struggling against her leathery hands, and she blinked at it slowly for a moment, memory pieces slowly connecting together.

Oh, yes, she remembered what this was! It's been quite the long time, but she could remember such a creature once her memory was jogged.

Wrinkled, semi bloated face pulling into a lopsided smile, lower blocky teeth jutting from her lips, The Granny blew a stream of bubbles out of her mouth at the creatures slowing down struggle, throat constructing with burbled words only she could hear under the water's weight.

:Little wee folk come to visit?:

It didn't answer, was barely moving now, little hands scrambling weakly against her fingers, the streams of bubbles from under its cone slowly fading. After a moment, pushing the creature closer to her face in the murky depths, whistling out more bubbles from her mouth, it's little cone head flopped back and it went limp.

For a few moments she stared at it, the cold of the depths creeping in even with her familiarity of it.

Then The Granny shook it, face pulling into a deep frown, lower teeth poking out of her mouth. She bubbled some more, wrinkles on her eyes and forehead dragging down with her saggy cheeks, and she stretched her legs to scrape her wrinkled toes idly against the stone flooring, slippery with age and water wear. Shaking it a few more times, limbs and cone moving with the water yet not at all as it had been moving originally, she grabbed the cones tail and tugged on it experimentally.

It strained, moved the cone up and down, but did not snap nor cause any other reaction from the silent thing.

Face now pulled into a pout, The Granny mumbled to herself, sucking on her upper lip for a moment in thought, one hand moving to itch idly at her barren head and peeling skin.

:Not talkative fellow, maybe?:

She blew a stream of bubbles onto the creature, followed the path up to the surface with her eyes, and then as she looked back down to her occupied hands something occurred to her.

Swinging herself up, thrusting with her free hand and kicking with her wrinkled small toed feet, pushing the murky water around and swirling it behind her, The Granny rose a shaky and thin hand above the water, achingly cold and bones jittering in her limb, the creatures fat body back in the air in the palm of her curled hand.

The action, however well intended or badly remembered, was rather a little too late.

After a few minutes, limb starting to shake under the weight, she finally hissed out a puff of bubbles and let her arm drop, pulling her hand to her chest to message her wrist, and the rounded thing flopped into the water with a splash, unmoving as it slowly sank.

The Granny watched it for a few more moments, watched as the body descended into the deep darkness below her, to its stone floors and walls obscured by drowned trash and bleached, gnawed upon bones. 

Raising a hand slowly, tilting her head to blink dark beady eyes, The Granny breathed out a plume of bubbles and slowly waved at its limp retreating form.

:Bye bye, little one.:


	3. Fungal Roaches Hoppin On The Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Janitor and a Gnome

Its cone tail twirled and flipped about as the gnome jumped, bouncing about on the bed. Even with the leather straps keeping it in place, even with the little give the mattress had the gnome bunched its legs up and leaped up and down, little squeaks and gurgles escaping it. 

A few of its friends milled about on the floor, fiddling with the bouncy suitcase and worn slippers. One had almost gotten its whole cone inside the left slipper, waving it's arms about, while another chirped and dashed about, toilet paper bunched up in its arms and trailing behind it.

A call sounded suddenly, a cry as the friend in the window jumped up and down, pointing frantically outside. A few of the gnomes instantly ditched their activities and ran, scuttling to the open wall to the elevator or to the crack in the wall behind the desk or up, up the bookcases to the rafters. A few others, however, did not.

The gnome on the bed stopped for a moment, trilling quietly as a few of its friends started moving things about, hiding the left slipper and rolling heavy bottles to the toilet and strewing the unrolled toilet paper all about. Tilting its cone head, thinking for a moment, it scrambled to one of the leather straps, little hands fiddling with the metal bit. 

It didn't get far, only slightly looser than the strap had been, when the door was pushed open.

For a moment they all attempted to be quiet, cones turned to the rooms owner, but the gnome near the toilet let out a shriek as a hand with trailing fingers got a little too close. 

There was instant chaos, gnomes squealing and the man's surprised yells that evolved into angry hissing shouting, and the gnome on the bed leapt to the bookcase, scrambling up as quickly as it possibly could.

It hadn't thought out its escape route all that carefully, however, and at the top it pressed itself against the wall, not willing to try and jump to the shelf or a pipe with the height it had climbed. The friends it had on the floor dashed about, leapt over wrinkled hands and dodged plodding footsteps, all the while sounding out alarms and confusing arrays of sounds to bombard and thus escape safely.

The tactic worked, the man stumbling for a moment and pressing trembling hands to his ears, and his teeth clacked together as he hissed words the gnomes could not understand, mumbling something over and over as the gnomes dived away and continued their shrieking in their new hidey holes.

It had turned into a game, get louder and louder, the gnome on the bookcase forgetting fear and leaning over on its belly, cone tail dangling off the edge as it joined in the noise making, swinging its feet behind it in brief excitement.

The man muttered, own distorted voice getting louder and louder, and he started to pace, shaking his head and flapping his hands, sometimes hitting the floor frantically with wide open palms. Sometimes his long arms lashed out, streaking under the bed or up a bookcase, hands in claws that scraped and pushed things out of the way, almost reaching a gnome but wavering and falling back with a thump, the gnomes voices gurgling together in loud random notes.

It was only when his voice rose with a shrieking scream and he slammed his hands down, a shudder in the floorboards strong enough to make the desk and bookcase shake, that the gnomes stopped, the game over.

Most skittered away after that, looking for something else to do, but the gnome on the bookcase couldn't leave just yet. It waited, watched as the man trembled and held his disjointed arms close, rubbing at his head erratically for a moment before hissing out a shuddering sob. His plodding steps were heavier, clacking his jaw slowly and quietly before curling up next to his bed, almost under the desk, long arms folding in and locking around his chest and neck, fingers intertwining with the fabric of his coat and rubbing together rhythmically.

The gnome waited, watched, as the man seemed to fold into himself, curl up as small as possible, and only when the only sound was his breaths and slow grinding teeth did it carefully make its way down.

It skittered sideways to the desk, and then down the other bookcase, as quiet as can be, and once on the floor it looked up at the unresponsive man, curled form rocking slowly and folded together with low hissing sobs.

A part of it felt bad, but another part of it had already started to think of what it should do next, where it should go next, and with that it skittered away, soft footsteps as it left the room and its burned out owner.


	4. Lay No Hand Upon Thy Neighbor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ferryman and a Guest

A deep, heavy sigh, sea salt air and bitingly cold wind that thrashed behind him above the waves, and The Ferryman watched the line as the boat docked next to him was boarded. The creaking of old water worn wood, salt encrusted and stacked with crates and barrels, was drowned out by the ever present cries of seagulls and crash of the agitated sea.

Their silhouettes rolled, steps heavy and uneven, clothed heavily for the cold air yet decorated in a fashion the man found irritating. Nothing against such frivolous dress, but the light reflecting off of jewelry hurt his eyes, too much to look at all at once.

But they were not the ones he was to be watching.

The docks were full of hidden places, safe nooks and crannies little lost things could hide, and even those of a larger nature could find their way between the shadows here. Out in the open, he was more suspicious, but it was only for a few minutes. He already had what he was to catch, roped up and gagged in his small boat; this was a final touch.

The more he found, the more he was given.

A commotion caught his attention, the low drum of babble suddenly pitching in almost drunken shouts, and he raised his overlarge, hanging head to look at the source, gouged blackened eyes dark and empty in the morning light.

The captain wasn't backing down, was standing almost chest to chest with an overstuffed man, the last man waiting to board from the nearly empty dock, both faces coloring red as they bellowed loudly at each other, gesturing wildly and aggressively. The fat man, top hat crooked upon his greasy head, huffed in a breath and seemed to try and steady himself, bulging face curled in rage as the captain crossed his arms and leaned back, just as angry.

After a moment the man swung his head around, straightening up and looking, and his squashed eyes locked onto The Ferryman's stiff form.

“Hey you! Get over here.”

A stubby finger pointed at him, teeth jutting out from his handlebar moustache, and the man waved him over.

With a heavy sigh The Ferryman moved, large, slow steps, face swinging slightly with every step, and when he got close enough for the man's squinting to widen there was an almost hasty scramble back a few steps. The captain huffed air from his nose, almost satisfactory, though he too leaned ever so slightly away. Their interactions were only by mutual respect, of their job connections; there was nothing otherwise to keep things polite between them.

After a moment of the soon to be guest gawking and opening and closing of his mouth, staring up at The Ferryman’s hulking form, the captain seemed to lose his patience and snapped, fatty jowls wagging with his words as he waved to the monster towering over them both. 

“What'd ya call it over for, huh? Need validation on pricing instead of walkin’ away?”

The guest sucked in a breath, seemed to enlarge with barely held rage, face colored brightly and curled heavily with wrinkles and folds. He jerked his stare up at The Ferryman, steadied his nerve and waved an arm at the captain.

“This, this so called captain’s trying to pull the bag over my head! An expensive price to get aboard, he says, yet his junkheap can barely keep afloat!”

The Ferryman loomed heavily, staring unblinkingly at the fat man before him, and the guests discomfort at the silence started to show as it lengthened, clearing his throat and shifting his weight side to side. Even the captain started to show signs, impatience slowly mixing in as he coughed into his fist.

Finally The Ferryman spoke, a deep, firm voice so different from the nasally bellows of the two men before him.

“And what did you need me for?”

The guest curled his hands into fists, seemed to try to appear taller, almost on tip toe as he glared up at The Ferryman that towered over him.

“I need ya to get some sense into this thug! Overchargin’ his passengers like this, it's criminal! Get ‘im to lower his prices!”

The Ferryman stared down at the guest as the captain actually sputtered, visibly both enraged and distraught, and he raised a pointed finger as he bellowed out a huff of heated air.

“Now wait just a second-”

“No.”

The Ferryman turned away, heavy coat sweeping against the worn planks of the dock, and started his slow stroll back to his watching point. There was a garbled noise behind him, the guest's upset stammering voice loud and rowdy, but he was ignored.

At least, he was ignored until the man had wrapped a pudgy hand in The Ferryman's cloak and attempted in vain to swing him back around, babbling angrily all the while.

The Ferryman stopped suddenly, the guest almost running into him, and it was only when he started to turn around did the man pull away from him, puffing up in false bravado and raising a sausage finger to shake at his hanging face, face bright red and sweaty as he opened his mouth to speak.

The Ferryman did not let him.

The man was dead before he hit the ground, a loud shot that made the very wooden planks shake and the thump shook the piles of crates nearest to them, a splatter and recoil.

The captain was visibly shocked, face drained of color as his eyes glued onto the gun in the looming monsters hand, and he almost looked as if he'd break into a run at any moment.

The guns safety was switched back on, examining it a moment before swinging it back to his hip, under the thick cloak that covered him completely, and The Ferryman heaved out a sigh, barely giving a glance to the corpse as he started to turn away.

“Y-ya shouldn't have done that!”

The captain was pale, very pale, quelled as The Ferryman raised his hanging head to look at him. His hissing whisper wasn't that loud, but there was noise onboard his ship, commotion as the gunshot registered. He looked up at the railing, a shaky relief at not seeing any witnesses, but his glance back at The Ferryman was dark.

“You'll get us both caught, you fucking idiot!”

His whisper was a little more forceful, but he turned away from The Ferryman, the tremble in his stocky shoulders strong enough to be visible. As he started to go aboard, almost hurriedly as to get away from the scene, his words were still hushed, anger twinging in the background.

“Ya fucking docked my pay, fucking freak! I'll be tellin’ the Governess about this!”

With that the captain disappeared, hastily shouting for his crew, the sounds of the waves deafening now even with the lack of seagulls scared away by the shot.

With a heavy sigh The Ferryman swung away, stomping back to his own hidden away boat, laden with his catch, leaving the bloated, nearly headless corpse to start attracting flies.

Irresponsible, dangerous even if it was traced back to him, but it would not. No witnesses, and he knew neither himself nor the captain would return to this dock in particular anytime in the near future.

He knew his own pay would be decreased due to this, something that irked him greatly after the fact.

...The man shouldn't have laid hands upon him.


	5. Fear The Hand That Feeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Janitor and The Runaway

When the hands wrapped around him it was utter terror, a cold spinning knot in his gut, of fear and adrenaline and complete panic because it caught him, it finally caught him, cold slimy hands with peeling fingers and bloated skin that wrapped around his chest and squeezed and dragged far down and under, down down down-

And then the cold drained, going limp because no, these were not those hands.

A shudder of a breath, blinking away the sudden tears, and the boy could barely see in the dim light but he could feel himself being moved, held close as the steps rocked with the walls leaning and bending. His own hands held on, almost automatic, leeching off the warmth that radiated from wrinkled, clawed hands, twisted and snarled yet a small comfort.

The boy knew these hands, and even though everything was wrong and the world was falling apart, this was safe, so much safer than the cold below.

He was still wet, drops from his hair and heavy clothes hanging off him, goosebumps on his skin and shivers making him cling even more to the hand holding him. The air here was just as stale as down below, just as cold, but not so wet, not so humid, and it wasn't exactly a climb he was being carried up but stairs, a dark stairwell maybe, twisted and curled and pitch black, and the boy clung to the monster holding him.

A landing was reached, slow hobbled steps that rocked with the steel walls, and the boy could see more now, passing stools and paintings and rugs on the floor.

He was so cold.

His captor had remained silent the whole way up from the dark, only hissing breath and heavy plodding footsteps, but now, suddenly, in a long hall descending into darkness, the purple carpet capturing the boy's eye in the swirling patterns and pieces, the man stopped a moment.

The boy hung limply in the claws grip, only his hands tight, only his hands clinging desperately with tremors twitching his muscles, and his eyes slowly started to shut, cold and shivery even with the firm warming pressure when the sudden noise made him jolt awake.

It was cracking, snapping as he felt the man lean back ever so slightly and move his neck, a clicking and scraping sound loud and clear in the silent hall, and the afterwards clatter of teeth, of the grind of it overhead him and heady sigh as bones and muscles tightened and relaxed.

The boys response was almost immediate, almost instinctive, and he clacked his jaw together a few times, harsh taps in his teeth and nerves in his gums. He couldn't crack his own neck in this position, but he attempted to, the satisfying give not there but the sound real enough.

The sudden silence from his answer was shocking enough for him to realize what he had done, and the boy let himself go completely limp, arms hanging freely in the air. 

He was moved, shiver in his spine as the hand holding him pulled back and close, and now his back was against the coat of the monster, against the leathery fabric and overlarge buttons and fat pockets. There was a breath of sound above him, feeling a brush of exhaled air against his head, and the warmth radiating from the stocky body under the coat made the boy lean back, still shivery, still cold and aching with images of wet soggy hands reaching out for him in the darkness of the flood, and-

And then there was a finger in his hair, brushing softly against his head, a low, guttural voice, rough and quiet and almost faded all the way into dust, and the rumble was enough for the boy to feel-

-husssshhhh-

Repeated, then again as the boy sobbed, curling his hands back to the fingers holding him captive, gross throaty coughs and cries, feeling wet and icky and cold, everything from the depths clinging to him and sucking his energy away. His sobbing was loud, tears rolling down his face and collecting on his nose and chin, and the low rumble of a hum was pressed against him, the monster looming over him and hissing air between jutting teeth quietly.

The boy remembered being called a crybaby by the other children. He remembered the playroom, he remembered crying because another boy ran over and knocked his block tower down, he remembered crying when he fell off the swing, he remembered crying because one of the older children had called him a name he didn't understand but knew to be mean. He remembered crying a lot, and he remembered someone picking him and telling him that it was alright to cry, that crying meant he could feel and feeling was something that not many in the world could do anymore.

The blankness in his mind, the one that constantly told him to run, run far away, hadn't taken away those memories.

Another hush above him, rough and hissed out, and then the steps continued hobbling forward, through the dark hallway and through a door into another hall full of dusty old air. The boy quieted now, tears still in his eyes and that knot still in his gut, the fear and panic caused by the constant stress of the thing in the water still there, still wrapped tight in his chest, but he was slowly warming up and slowly drying off and another rumble of a crackling hum was almost soothing, an almost memory of a past time, and the boy slowly closed his eyes, not safe but feeling so much safer than before.


	6. She Who Drowns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Granny, Six, and The Twin Chefs

Her footsteps echoed in the hall, wooden flooring creaking ever so slightly under her tiny weight, and Six took her time, looking up at the dusty paintings and aged photos that decorated the walls, peeling wallpaper and musty, stagnant air. She knew where she was, though having never thoroughly explored this place her steps were slow, time taken to look at every crack in the floorboards and curled peel of patterned wallpaper, chipped wooden desks and decorative vases that had fallen so long ago, stains of water damage on wooden planks and long dried and withered flowers dusting over the floor where they had fallen.

No handprints here, no tar stains or bloody footprints, just dust and memory of something before her time.

A door open before her just a crack, scraping the floor as the floor rocked and it's hinges squealed as she pushed it open enough for her to slip by. The hall after it was cleaner almost, worn carpet fringed and squashed down with the big indents of large shoed feet. The doors on the sides were closed, some with thick metal locks in place, and Six looked at them all in curiosity as she passed by, mentally noting to herself where they were and wondering if the vents could lead her inside them or if the keys were in her reach elsewhere.

As she moved forward a sound caught her attention, tilting her hooded head and stilling for a second as the noise registered.

Running water.

It was only a few more feet before the carpet under her feet became sodden, wet and sticky threads, a thin inch of water crawling forward and soaking the wooden floorboards and planks that connected to the walls. The dark here wasn't extreme, but she pulled the lighter from one of her pockets and flicked it on, flame dancing in the still air, now tinged with damp and humidity, a cool silence. The reflection off the water that slowly continued to flow forward, slowly soaking more of the carpet and floor, was bright and shiny, flickers and beams of light, and Six hesitantly clasped it closed, sticking it back into her pocket.

The light was bluer here, a muffled gray, and from here she had seen the open doorway. Careful steps, sounds masked by the running water and splashing, dripping sounds, Six made her way over to the left, keeping to the soggy carpet even as her feet became soaked.

The door opened inward, blocking her sight but cracked ever so slightly, and Six only waited a short moment, a short inhale of breath, tasting air that hinted of an open window, sea salt and the cold biting winds of The Maws vast insides, before poking her head inside and slipping in on tip toe.

The room was a bath, slick tiled floor with an inch of water under her feet, a slight tug of current that pushed through the door and into the hall, and it was a small room, cabinet and stool and shelves, small window open in the corner, a clawed bath next to it against the wall and a small toilet opposite.

It only took a moment to adjust to the dark blue lighting of the outside for Six to see the figure in the bathtub.

Dark, fuzzy with the darkness, but she could still see long feet hanging out one end, small feet curled and almost touching the cold floor, long arms limp from the sides, a hill of a head leaning on the other end, hook of a nose, and Six stiffened, waiting and ready for it to notice her.

There was no movement, no twist of the head in her direction, and then those arms retracted into the bath and the head ducked under and it was only the legs visible in the bath now, toes curling and uncurling. There was silence, and then the sound of bubbles, a stream rising to the surface before fading away, a splash of water from the overfilled tub.

Six stayed still a moment longer, still ready to run, but it seemed like she hadn't been seen at all.

A quick glance around the room showed it was fairly sparse, the cabinet full of toilet paper, toilet lid open, shelves lined with dark shrouded things and, near to the bath, towels hung on hooks, overlarge ones trailing on the floor and sodden with water, a pile of dropped towels bunched up together. 

Water flowed from the faucet above the bath, still overflowing onto the tiled floor, and the long legs straightened for a moment before going limp again, small toes curling and uncurling in the blue gray light. The wind outside the window whipped about, a sudden loud thrashing of air and breeze of sharp cold that brushed against Sixs raincoat.

There was nothing of interest, nothing important here, nothing but the danger of the thing in the tub.

Six saw no reason for her to be here.

Turning away, back to the open slit of the door, ready to sneak away and keep exploring, she was stopped by other, louder sounds.

Steps, heavy steps, and loud garbled words exchanged and synchronized together in babbling bellows, making their way directly down the hall.

Whether or not they just passed by or not did not matter to her.

Six knew who they were, and she knew what they'd do if they caught her. What they'd do to the thing in the tub was none of her business.

She didn't have many options but Six had already picked out a spot, splashing through the inches of water and almost slipping on the tiles to the pile of fallen towels. One overlarge one covered them while hanging from a hook, and she scooted behind it like it was a curtain, taking a few soggy ones and covering herself as best as she could, some dry parts on the top protected from the water to attempt to keep herself dry.

Not the best or most comfortable, but to those not seeking she had not been there.

The towels stank, musty and wet, the dry parts rough hewn and worn, threads that tangled her fingers, and the cold crept under her raincoat as she sat and waited, listening to the sounds of approach from the outside. There was another splash, more bubble sounds, but nothing more from the thing inside the tub.

The door creaked open, a click as the light was turned on, and the loud gibbering sounded out, not in surprise or shock but of exasperation.

The words were nothing, babble of threaded noise against Six, her own words dead in her lungs, and as such it was nonsense in the room, gibberish she had no understanding of as the water splashed against heavier feet.

Curiosity got the best of her however, and slowly she uncovered her hooded head, brushing the stinky towels away to allow a sliver of sight, and she blinked out at the two giants that now filled the room.

Garbed in their usual form, stained and dirtied with a matter of things, both gestured about almost to nothing, the thing in the tub silent and still submerged.

And then there was a splash of water, both leaning back with harsh gasps and the thing raised its head out of the overflowing water, arms splashing out and grasping the sides of the tub.

Six could see it better in this white lighting, the bulb swinging above them, but all it registered as was another obstacle, something large and wrinkly and ever so familiar, ever so dangerous.

Its voice was cracked, sharper, and it cackled loudly as the two giants leaned over and grabbed it out of the tub, almost as if helping it out as it swung its spindly legs to tremble against the water slicked tiles, holding its thin arms carefully up. One giant raised a hand and switched off the faucet, making the thing crackle even more, distorted laughter grating Sixs ears, and she watched from the safety of the soaked towels, fingers idly playing with the worn fringes. 

The thing straightened its back with a sharp sound, low gurgles from the two giants holding it up, and when it swung its head back and forth, stringy hair flinging water drops about, the two let out howls of surprise, raising free hands almost simultaneously to cover their stretched, folded faces, and the cackling of the thing as it laughed echoed in the tiled room.

The gibberish continued, gestures this way and that as the two giants guided the thing out, thin spindly legs wobbling unsteadily on the wet floor, soft splashes of water under heavy feet, and Six watched and waited patiently.

She had started moving out from the towels before the three of them packed through the door and down the soggy hallway, but then the thing turned its wrinkled face back, gurgling out words as its face twisted and small teeth jutted from its lower bloated lips. Six froze her own careful movements, almost out of the towels, the yellow of her hood poking out, and the thing looked at her, side eyed her with a small bruised eye, and the cackle of laughter as the two giants continued guiding it out rang in Sixs ears even when the rest of the plodding steps and loud gibberish faded from the room and hall.


	7. You Must Not Sink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six and her dreams

Six did not have nightmares.

Her sleep was unmarred by fear, by pain or suffering that she could feel. Not even hunger affected her there, a bubble of warm light when she fell unconscious and her mind ran rampant in the dark.

But Six did dream.

Once, she dreamt of sand.

Golden rosy sand, between her toes, sticking to her legs, and the sea surrounded her tiny island, and there was no sun but it was flooded with cream light. It was warm, and she held up her hands, saw through the flesh of them to the millions of grains layering the ground, and there was a comfortable ease in her gut, not too heavy nor too empty.

Her raincoat felt sticky upon her, glued on her skin, and the sand stuck to her feet as she wiggled her toes, light glistening upon the waves.

Six looked up into the clear sky, the light blue tinge so far away, and she let out a held breath of air.

It escaped her in smoke, ash and dust puffing up into the air, and then she looked out over the sea, feeling globs of tar slime fill her mouth and cover her tongue. Trailing over her chin, out the corners of her lips, and when a clump fell to the sand she watched as steam rose, sizzling and charring into burnt sludge at her feet.

She held her breath, after the rise of hot air and non scented steam dissipated, leaving a blackened crusted hole in the sand, her toes wiggling absurdly close to its shriveled edges. 

She did not attempt to breath again, and her chest felt hollow and empty and light, clean even with the dribble of encrusted black syrup on her lips.

When she raised her head again, Six was confronted with a silent sea, a flat sea. The waves were frozen, light still playing on the edges but it's hidden momentum nonexistent. The air was warmer, warmer than sea salt air should be, and Six looked out upon the stiff currents surrounding her slowly sinking island and started to walk forward.

The sand clung to her, rose in dust swirls to brush her hands and fill her fingers with clumps of grains, but when she reached the shore line it all fell away.

One step in, then two, and the bubbling steam started, the water boiling around her feet and then legs as she walked deeper in. Her raincoat blackened around the edges, started to curl, the yellow color bleeding out in oozes of ichor, but she felt nothing, nothing at all.

It was when Six was chest deep that she stopped, raising her hooded head to the sky.

It was dark now, speckled with light that was not of the stars, and there was no moon. Behind her rose the smoke tower, empty and lifeless on it's slowly sinking sand island. The ground under her toes, smooth rock flecked with sandy grains, was slowly falling away.

Soon she'd have no ground to stand upon.

Six did not know how to swim.

Her hands had started to curl, the boiling water around her warming her bones, and she breathed again, a splash of puffed black dust and glopping ooze of slime into the bubbling waves. Her lips felt charred.

After a moment Six raised her hands, pushing her hood back and away, searching for her face.

Her fingers brushed over smooth porcelain, dips and curves of a small mouth and small nose and small slitted dark eyes, mask still dripping with black tar.

When Six woke up, it was sudden, with a gasp that didn't startle her with black dust, and she'd curl her knees to her chest and hack and spit to her side, just to check.

Nothing like tar escaped her, nothing but normal saliva, and her shaky breath was nothing short of tense relief.

Six hated that dream, but it was no nightmare.


	8. Why Fear Those That Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Runaway and Six

The floor was cold under his feet, wet and slick, and the boy gritted his jaw and kept walking.

Something was telling him he was very lost, but that made little sense. He had been lost in the beginning, had no idea where he was going, had just been following the footsteps of another. Whatever path he was on, he had no clue what was at the end.

Still, it felt like...like he was in the wrong place.

Stopping for a moment, raising his flashlight and looking at the pipes that lined the walls and disappeared upwards in spiraling, chaotic knots, the boy shivered, free hand hugging around his chest and hand tightening on his flashlight. Water dripped down, plopping in quiet patterns, and the sound was not comforting whatsoever.

So far, this area had no deep water pits, only thin inches and small dripping pools. The thing in the water couldn't get him here.

The safety he should have felt was not there, instead a hanging cloud of suspense. The boy did not feel safe, even if he was so far away from the flooded areas he had first fallen into.

Flashing the light ahead of him, metal walls going on and on, splits and crossroads up ahead of him, and the boy grinded his jaw and steadied himself. He needed to keep going.

The boy was just about to take his next step when the rat fell on him.

His grip on his flashlight was enough to keep it in his hand as he flailed for a moment, a choked scream stuck in his throat, the blob of fur and claws on his head and he stumbled back, pointing the flashlight at the floor with both hands firmly around it, shaking ever so slightly. 

The surprise and shock made him not see it clearly, still blinking at the lump of fur in confusion as his heart pounded in his chest.

When it finally dawned on him that it was just a rat, it was just a brown furry creature, not one of the black things, not the slick tar thing that squealed when it saw him and chased him so persistently, the boy lowered his flashlight and whistled a shaky breath through tightly clenched teeth. The knot in his chest was still there, his trembling still there, but knowing it wasn't something horrible that wanted to eat him was at least a little bit calming.

Walking up to the rat, slow steps and flashlight targeted onto its limp body, the boy tilted his head and hesitantly poked it with his foot, toe brushing matted wet fur before he pulled back in disgust. The rat was very, very dead, and if it's unresponsive nature wasn't telling enough the gaping hole in its throat and blood that still oozed out of it was a clear sign.

Thoughts of the black slugs crossed his mind again, of how one could be up there right now, having just finished tearing the life from this creature and now waited for him to step in just the right way, in just the spot for it to hang down and drop, to wither around his neck and shoulders and for it to squeeze-

The boy flinched, made himself not move and remain stiff in front of the rat; his imagination was getting the best of him, since he could swear he heard something crawling around above him, scuffle against the metal pipes.

There was nothing there, it was just his imagination playing tricks on him.   
It was easy, thinking there was one of those slugs up there; they were hidden away everywhere in this dark and wet place. 

The first one he had found was when he had still been following footsteps in the distance, following someone else's lead, and it had been a stain on the ground at first, signs of struggle and blackened scuffs of feet and hands clawing on the wooden blockade, and then the thing that lay almost comatose behind it was bloated, fat, and one end of it had raised when he had flashed his new flashlight and the sound coming from it had nearly made him freeze in his tracks.

The fact it had slowly, laboriously started to crawl towards him was what made him start running.

After that, there were no more footsteps ahead of him, only his own lonely echoes.

Taking in a shuddered breath of air, steeling his nerve and squinting his eyes, the boy ignored the imagined sound, ignored the rats little corpse, and started forward once more.

And then something else, something much bigger, fell on him.

It knocked the flashlight out of his hands, a brief splash of yellow and flailing limbs, and then he struggled, high pitched echoed yell ripping from his throat strung high with terror, throwing his arms out in a panic because where was the light, where did his light go he can't see the slug was going to get him the thing in the dark was going to hurt him-

The boy somehow flung the heavy thing off of him, a dizzying wave of fear rushing through and wheezed breath of air as he scrambled on the metal ground and swung his head around to try and find his fallen flashlight, pulse pounding in his ears and panting hisses from his lips, and then he saw its clear light splattered on the wall and he leapt for it, hands wrapping around it and bringing close to his chest as he swung around, waving the beam of light like a weapon against the thing in the dark-

The light landed on a small figure, yellow and slowly sitting up from where it had fallen.

Its hooded head looked at the boy, dark and hidden as its bare toes wiggled against the slightly wet floor.

It...wasn’t a slug.

For a moment the both of them were frozen, staring at each other, and then the yellow cloaked person carefully stood up and swiped at their cloak with tiny hands distractedly, now not even looking at him.

The boy had to consciously unclench his jaw, breath still heavy and fast, heartbeat still racing and shudders in his arms, unnerved with the flashlight targeted at the smaller person, and then it crossed his mind that maybe that wasn't such a good idea, thought stiff and fast and sudden in his light, empty head.

When he had first gotten a hold of this thing, not knowing exactly what it was until later when he had remembered its name, remembered what it was used for, remembered the stories he's been told, he had made the mistake of turning it on with the misty clouded glass end in his face.

So the boy nervously pointed it more to the ground, on the person's bare feet, still trying to calm his nerves and fluttering heartbeat.

It was just another kid. There was nothing to worry about.

When he finally spoke, voice still shaken, not at all firm in the manner he wanted, the yellow cloaked person had turned away, head tilted upwards from where they had fallen.

“Who, who are you?”

They turned to him slowly, the dark under their hood almost unnatural in the way it seemed to ooze out shadow, but with the light trained on their feet he could see strands of hair, tangled and matted from within. For a moment they were silent, head tilted downwards, and then they raised both of their hands, fingers coming up one by one.

“...Six.”

They raised their hands to him, but it wasn't the number six.

“That's...that’s nine.”

“Six…!”

The kid waved their hands insistently, then curled their fingers into fists and dropped them back to their sides.

The boy nodded, swallowing hard, the discomfort and lack of feeling safe still hanging on his shoulders, still making him shiver. This didn't feel….right, real. It felt like a cloud, a half dream, the growing knowledge of someone else down here, someone else in the dark and wet places of this massive crawling prison.

“Okay, okay.”

Six raised their hand, pointed directly at him.

“You…?”

It took a moment for him to understand, but when he did he stood up a little straighter, felt a little embarrassed. Wasn't it polite to introduce himself first? Where was his manners?

“My name is-”

But then he had to stop, stuttering for a moment. The flashlight dipped lower to the ground as he scratched his head, squinting his eyes in thought.

He couldn't remember.

Before this fully processed Six had started to move, turning to the walls and continuing to look up, almost as if they had forgotten about him already.

It was when they started to walk away, out into the darkness, that the boy snapped awake.

“Hey wait!”

He almost ran to catch up, trying to keep the flashlight steady, and he made sure to point it ahead, not directly at Six. The boy wasn't sure of this, but he didn't want to be alone. He's been by himself for too long, and the comfort of another being there, even if they were a little odd, was better than being alone.

Or with that thing from the water.

For the most part they both were silent, the boy trying not to stare as they continued forward, and he sometimes flashed the light curiously down splitting pathways and crossroads but Six seemed dead set on just going straight. Every time he thought about asking about it the words died in his throat; the other kid seemed to know where they were going and he didn't want to make a bother of himself by questioning them.

However, after a time, the boy nervously asked a question, trying to not be too loud but still having his voice echo over the metal walls and pipes that curled everywhere above him.

“Are...are you a girl or a boy?”

Six didn't even stop moving, didn't seem to acknowledge him for a moment, and then their voice spoke up, almost silent in the way that it did not echo whatsoever.

“Maybe.”

“...Oh.”

The boy nodded and they returned to being silent, his wandering glances and flashing of the light roaming the nondescript walls and pipes. The blank curiosity of his question had already left him, unimportant now, and the slow clouded dream feeling was creeping over him again, as if he wasn't really there, bare feet on the cold, slick ground.

It was when they came to an opening, the walls spreading around them into a large L shape, the floor dipping away sharply, that the boy felt the shiver of anxiety crawl up his spine and lodge in his throat. His flashlight's beam could not find the opposite walls, only the far corner that signified the split, and when he pointed the light downwards from where the floor ended he could see water.

Not deep water, cans and shoes sprinkled about, sodden wet and stable in the inch or so of liquid, but just the light reflecting off of its surface made his heartbeat speed up a little more, head go light and blank, the dark strands of fear crawling on the edges of his vision.

Six however had no misgivings or hesitations whatsoever, and without a word to him they scooted right up to the edge and dropped down, a light splash as their feet landed in the sewer.

The boy watched, almost frozen as they kicked a can, slowed by the water and splashing about for a moment, before they turned their hooded head forward and started sloshing through.

It was when they were almost out of the beam of light that the boy came to a sudden hasty decision, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a running leapt down into the shallow water.

The splash and shock of it, the shiver in his spine at the memory of the thing in the water, stumbled him for a moment, tripping over debris in the water in a hasty rush forward, but then his hand tightened on his flashlight and he raised it to follow Six in a slower way, shakily pushing his legs to slosh through the water and catch up without running in a blind panic.

The kid didn't stop, but their pace slowed and by the time he caught up they were well away from where they had dropped down. No pipes were visible, only smooth stone and almost pebbled flooring under his feet, and his pants were flecked with drops and splashes of water. Six's coat looked unmarred, barely even wet, and they continued splashing forward in silence.

It didn't take all that long for the boy to start hearing things.

It was just his imagination; it was too shallow here, too small, too little water. The sound of a bubble trail persisted behind him, no matter his knowledge of it not actually being there, though it stayed well enough away for now. It's moans were silent, only puffing bubbles, and Six didn't seem to hear it. Or maybe they were ignoring it, like him.

To take his mind off of the thing that wasn't actually there, the boy swallowed the lump in his throat and attempted to distract himself, voice fluttery and a little loud.

“Did, did you escape too?”

Six didn't stop moving forward, but their answer didn't take long, stiff and quiet.

“No.”

“Then...then where did you come from?”

His confusion was layered in his voice, and when Six stopped he almost ran into them, the sudden detraction of their push forward a shock. The water was cold over his feet, the metal band on his leg even colder, a little tight, but he ignored it and stared at the hooded kid before him, their head tilted down to stare at the beam of light trained on the water.

“Outside.”

Six raised a hand, slowly, stretching to their tip toes and pointing upwards, hooded face dark. The boy glanced up quickly, to the hidden ceiling above them shrouded in shadows, and when he looked back at Six he leaned away as they sloshed forward and pushed their covered face into his space, their short stature not at all diminishing the sudden invasion of his personal bubble. Even with light their face was too dark, strands of black curled hair poking out the sides, and the boy instinctively pulled his lips back and grit his teeth at them, high key uncomfortable.

For a moment there was silence, Six still and almost searching his fear laced face, the bubbles behind him forgotten as he stared into the dark pit under the hood of the kid in front of him, and it was only when he started to grind his teeth, clacking his jaw in his discomfort loudly, that Six backed off, tilting their head a him as he straightened back up, shoulders tense and molars grinding rhythmically.

“Stop.”

The movement was too sudden, too quick for the boy, and the sudden hand in his face made him freeze, everything going still from the firm contact. Sixs hand pressed against his nose and mouth, fingers curling and the thought flitted through the boy's mind that they didn't feel quite right, quite real, and then Six let their hand fall back to their side, now looking at the water surrounding their feet.

“Too loud, too ugly.”

The boy blinked at them, confused, but when he opened his mouth Six shook their head, raising both hands to press on the sides of their yellow hood. For a second they rocked on their feet, hunching with their head in their hands, and the boy stood there utterly bewildered, a shiver crawling up his spine and a light tremor in his arm making the flashlight's beam twitch, before he hesitantly sloshed forward through the ankle deep water and raised an arm, biting his lip before placing his hand slowly onto Six's shaking shoulder.

They didn't stop their movements, seemed to push their hands harder on the fabric of their hood, but after a moment they let out a shaky breath and their hands dropped limply to their sides, still hunched forward.

“I...I won't do that again.”

The boy's tongue felt heavy in his mouth, jaw aching ever so slightly, and he pressed his teeth together after the words escaped his throat, consciously stopping himself from grinding again, from scraping them together again.

Six was still, silent, and then the boy startled and yanked his hand back, taking a few steps back and mumbling an apology, the heat rising in his face in embarrassment for how long he had been in contact with them. The beam of light darted around as he moved in a slow circle, distracting himself, passing where the bubbles streaming behind him were not, and when he turned back to Six he had goosebumps all up his arms, trying so very hard to ignore the whispering gurgles out in the darkness, something old and wrinkled and long clawed calling him into the dark, into the deep water.

Six had their back turned to him, hood tilted and looking up, and the boy kept the flashlight still, not daring to flash it upwards to the unknown ceiling above, not daring to see black curled slugs bloated from recent meals, not daring to see the hanging long limbed form of the thing in the water waiting for him, calling him softly with open arms.

“Where, where are you going, Six?”

They didn't move for a long moment, the thick silence overlaid by the whispering of bubbles in his left ear, and then they turned their head sideways to him, dark curls of hair bushing out and the ever so slight dip of a forehead and nose silhouetted in black shadow.

“Up,” and they raised their hand again, again pointing up in a sweeping arch, “up, up, and fly far away.”

The boy thought on this, focusing on not grinding his teeth, on not moving his jaw or biting his tongue, and after a moment he shined the light up before he lost his nerve, a sharp flicker in its beam before it blazed over the empty darkness above them, void of pipes or cobbled walls or metal ceilings. 

“Can, can I come?”

Six let their hand drop, water splashing around their feet as they turned around back to him, hands clenching and unclenching at their sides for a moment. Then their head rose, the unnatural darkness almost oozing from the insides of their hood.

“Yes.”

And this time, they waited for the boy to start forward, to reach their side before walking through the dark water, and this time, the bubbles and whispered mumbles from behind him did not follow, disappearing into blissful silence.


	9. It's A Human Resource

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Chef (with a smile) and a recipe

The Chef puffed out a plume of smoke from their nose, beady eyes trained on the small notebook they held loosely in their lap. Leaning back in the already creaking wooden chair, flicking ash off the cigarette in their hand, they raised their gaze to stare blankly out off the balcony into the hazy blue mist of The Maws abyss.

Some sound or other echoed, dull and ringing out in the foggy darkness, and The Chef huffed loudly, an itch of a cough stuck in their throat, and they turned their attention back to the notepad, jamming the cigarette to hang loosely from their stretched lips.

Their brothers handwriting was atrocious, not to mention the lead smears and darkened spots of grease and sweat distorting the writing, and The Chef had to raise the notepad up to their face and squint at the words to find any meaning in the smeared scribbles.

The name was nothing to them and its origins were just nonsense gibberish, but guests seemed to love knowing such things. Someone else, upstairs, would be making a placecard or other for the dish, but right now The Chef was focused on the ingredients that their brother had jotted down earlier this week.

It was better to carry notes than the whole book in one's pocket, but this copying down nonsense was going to take more time then they were willing to give. Naturally creating new and more challenging dishes was entertaining, was something new, but they were running a restaurant, not some roadside eatery. This place was supposed to have a stable menu, not fluctuate, yet complaints have been trickling down of a boredom on The Chefs dishes.

Why it should matter did not make sense to them, but even if every season disposed of the last batch there was always another round of snotty visitors who had too much to say about The Chefs cooking that was not altogether that well meant. It didn't even amount to criticism, more of whinnying spurred on by their over spoiled palates, but The Chefs could do nothing about it besides comply.

The book reading was a nice change of pace, they supposed, and smoke plumed out of their stretched mouth, rising and swirling about as the wind changed. A cold gust blew past, bringing with it the smell of sea salt and brine, and The Chef dropped the notepad back into their lap, scratching idly at the top of their head and under their hat.

The yawn caught them off guard, wrinkles and folds of skin curling and stretching with slight pinpricks of pain in their cheeks and jaw, closing their eyes as dry flesh folded over and stretched unevenly against their nose. Blocky teeth snapping together, The Chef had to raise their hand and feel around their mouth for a moment, snagging the cigarette that had been moved and trapped between rolls of peeling flesh, and they took a long drag from it, other hand rubbing against their stretched out, dry eyes.

They were losing sleep, this change of pace that had been thrust upon them interrupting their schedule, but they weren't the only one.

Their brother was downstairs, fast asleep in one of the pantries. Sleeping on the job, but The Chef had come to the decision to let it be. 

The nightmares were getting worse, and it has been one too many times where they were woken by their frantic brother, not to mention they themselves have woken up in a blind panic due to terror inducing dreams.

It was only when they slept that they ever felt truly alone, and dreams of trying to find their lost brother in an empty, smoke filled tower were not what they ever wanted to experience.

One more glance at the recipe, thinking over the ingredients, The Chef huffed out a sigh and stood up from their creaking chair, another puff from the cigarette as their gaze scanned the foggy blue abyss that stretched out beyond the balcony. After a moment they flicked the butt of the cigarette onto the metal floor and grinded a foot down, a slight trace of ash left over to mix with the countless other stains spread out under their feet.

Offal, the recipe required offal, and they had some of that stored and frozen away but cleaned intestine lining was not what they usually saved. Hearts, kidneys, livers,stomachs, sweetbread, tongues, even brain matter and lungs, but intestines?

Hell, the recipe didn't specify a regulation of organs, so maybe The Chef could spice it up a bit. There were other organs they had saved for other recipes, stuff not usually prepared, but this was based upon organs, a nice kabob of sorts; the reproductive system may be of use.

The Chef rumbled out a chuckle, stuffing the notepad into their pocket under their greasy apron; they could probably advertise it as a fertility dish, aphrodisiac possibly. The guests loved that sort of thing, didn't they?

But that did mean they should get fresh ingredients, not dig around in the massive freezers below the main kitchen. They'd need to visit upstairs, and The Chefs face drooped a little more at the thought, pushing their way back into their home and the warmer air permeating from the kitchen below their feet.

They wouldn't need their brother to accompany them, though for a moment they considered it. It felt safer, the both of them up there, but they were less conspicuous if they went up one at a time.

There was also the fact that their brother needed the sleep, even if they were sitting on a crate inside a packed pantry. 

Mumbling to themselves, a hand poking up and under the flesh of their cheek and scraping short dull nails against their bumpy skin, The Chef started to make ready for an upstairs trip, gathering supplies and finding a wheeled cart to push along, a cooler ready on top. 

Maybe it wasn't so bad, all these new recipes and use of ingredients. It gave them something interesting to do, right? 

And it kept them distracted from the tedious thoughts of nightmares depicting them in solitude and the bags forming under their brothers eyes.


	10. You Dream From Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six and The Lady, with bonus leeches

Six kept masks in her suitcase.

Little things, a sack to hide her head in, a cracked teapot to look at the outside world in just a sliver of lighting, the masks she's found from the playroom of the hungry fox, of the red imp.

And the white womans face.

Six held it up, looked into its smooth face, the only sound plinks of water droplets in an overflowing bucket in the corner, the air cold and stagnant as she sat upon the damp clothes in her suitcase. She kicked her feet for a moment, almost lost her balance as she leaned back and raised it up above her, as if the face was fluidly standing up with a locked gaze on her. Her feet were wet, the stone ground slick, and she stuck her legs out and balanced for a moment, wiggling her toes and staring into the black eyes of the mask.

Then she sat up, bare feet slapping the wet ground loudly, holding the mask an arms length away.

One of her hands explored it for a moment, going down the bridge of the small nose and tracing the round lips, the high cheeks and forehead, the curves of the eyes. Then she flipped it around, into the darkness of its other side, and Six carefully put the mask on.

Completely blind, no light whatsoever, and she stood up, waving her arms to gather her balance, breath loud in her ears. Then Six took a few steps forward.

The stone was cold and slippery and she swung her arms about, hands open wide with palms out, twitching her fingers like how the long armed monster would when he was confused. Her fingertips brushed a wall, slick with water that continually trailed down to pool on the floor and thus slide away into cracks and holes, and she turned away from it, hands out in front of her.

Her breath was loud in her ears, stuffy and warm in the masks encompassing darkness, and her foot hit something loud and cold as she lost her focus, stumbling and almost falling on her face, arms pin wheeling around to catch her balance. Her next steps forward were cautious, sticking her legs out slowly and wiggling her toes to feel the ground, and this time she skirted around the can, away as it rolled behind her.

Six did not hit anything until the last second, when her breath became too much and her interest had faded; the pillar was not there one moment and then was in front of her the next, and her hands did not catch it in time.

The smack into the stone was sudden and forceful and Six fell back, straight onto her bottom.

For a moment she sat there, ears ringing and a hand raised to her hooded head, pressing against the fabric, and the water puddle soaked her legs and sent goosebumps up all over her skin.

She failed, again.

Slowly, unhappily, Six took the mask off, a breath of colder, cleaner air, and she turned the face around to stare up at her.

Her head hurt now.

Six hesitated a moment before pressing the mask to her chest, wrapping her arms around into a hug, and she pulled her wet legs to her chest and curled up in the puddle of water.

For a moment she rocked, the masks perfectly carved face pressed against her.

And then she stood up in one fluid motion, straight back with the mask hugged to her.

She spun around, walked stiffly to her suitcase with its moldy cloth bedding, and crawled ontop of it all, mask still clutched in tight hands. Back facing the open room, face lain against wet shirts and facing the scattered photographs taped onto the suitcases inner lid, Six curled around the mask almost in desperation.

She had dreams, but only sometimes.

Never nightmares.

Often she dreamed of a dress.

It was yellow.

She'd be bare foot, and the ground was different, was a living thing under her, green and wavy, and she'd hop about, more excited then she's ever been in her life.

Her dress spun with her, and she could hear herself laughing, though she couldn't feel the air in her lungs and the air felt dead and silent. The living ground bent under her feet, slid between her toes in green blades, and she'd dance about in her dream, never seeing anything else but the almost breathing things underneath her.

And then something interrupted her play, a soft sound, a low hum, and a hand wrapped around her own, warm and soft.

She stopped, wavering for a moment, but when she looked up finally there was too much light, a faint silhouette above her outlined with blinding radiance, and Six would stare long and hard upwards before turning her gaze back to the green things waving below her, wiggling her toes as the low hum and mumbles got louder.

The hand holding hers squeezed her lightly for a moment, larger than her own but not all encompassing, and she could almost feel the something bend over her, a looming dark shadow.

For a moment, Six would almost understand what was being said to her, tilting her head in thought as the words almost made sense.

And then there was a pressure on her head, soft lips pressed against her forehead, brushing her hair away with another gentle hand, and slowly the dark thing straightened up, murmuring quietly as it went.

The ground was going still, cold, green withering away, and her yellow dress started to fade.

And then Six would wake up.

Six hummed to herself, still wrapped around the mask, still curled up on the dirty, wet clothing that served as her bedding. She didn't know what she was humming, but she remembered it clearly and thus she hummed.

It echoed, in the dark of her small, cold room, and she quieted after awhile. The silence was only interrupted by the water drip, drip, dripping down.

Six did not want to fall asleep. Six did not want to dream anymore.

She did not want to dream of yellow dresses or living ground. She did not want to dream of the dark hallway, enclosed on her sides and filled with heady smoke, entwining around her and her raincoat.

She didn't want to dream of the nothingness before her and behind her, the purple carpet under her bare feet frayed and rotting. There was a hint of a whisper, way ahead of her, and the shine of the white mask shone through the dense smoke, watching her, tall and looming and ever so elegant.

She'd dream of things under her raincoat, sliding down the sleeves and falling from her legs. She couldn't break gazes with the white masks owner but she could see, black squirming things, slick skinned and slimy as they piled around her, slime trails left on her skin. They'd squeal, whine, but the sounds were different, wrong.

Six took a step forward, left the crying things behind. Their wails echoed in the thick smoke, the narrow hallway, and the only way to go was ever so slowly forward.

More of them fell from her, larger and larger, crying and sobbing and wailing for her, yet the mask called her ever closer, blindingly bright in the dark smoke. 

It was at the end of the hall when the dream ended, the mask looming over her as more leeches trailed down her arms and twined down her legs, sobbing quietly, fitfully as they slumped to the dusty carpet, trailing from her fingers without any resistance.

Six did not like her dreams. She did not like sleeping.

Six did not like the lady in the white mask.

She hugged the mask closer to her, a slip of a sound escaping her, a whimper. 

Maybe she was crying, she thought, and she grabbed her hood with one hand, the other pressing the mask to her, the stink of molded clothing surrounding her, humid and cold. She pulled the fabric down, to cover her face, the tug and force something to cling to, and maybe another sound slipped from her throat, twisting her hands into claws to dig into the hood, to tightly grip the mask.

The next sob was enough to shake her, to make her press the hood over her face even more, try to muffle herself.

Six /hated/ the lady in the white mask.


	11. What Would Happen If You Lost Your Legs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gnomes, The Bellhop, and The Lady
> 
> Warnings for alluding to suicide, gnome death/injury, and the violent death of a leech in the end

The letter fell from the ceiling. 

Specifically, from a sliver thin crack that etched from a lone corner and now dripped dark tar, which had left greased stains on the paper. The ceiling continued to leak even after the message had splattered to the floor, small droplets of black ooze that would most definitely need a bucket to be placed underneath.

The Bellhop sighed, shoulders sagging as he held the letter loosely between forefinger and thumb. It didn't have much residue left, but a strand of the tar slipped from one corner and he watched it fall to the floor before carefully opening the slightly damp paper, holding it by the corners and bringing the letter close to his face to read the words properly.

After a moment, slightly mumbling the words to himself, The Bellhop carefully folded the paper back into it's original form before tearing it into small strips, the damp paper shredding easily and quietly. Crinkling it up into a ball that he held in one fist, The Bellhop straightened up, spine cracking and sliding into a straighter stance for a moment, before he hunched back into a shorter height.

As he started to make his way to a nearby supply closet, keeping an eye out for a nearby trash to deposit the ruined letter, The Bellhop shivered and hoped it wasn't a child up there.

It was always worse when a kid somehow managed to get themselves to Her, always worse. Really, none of them should even be able to get past The Kitchen or The Guest Area, not to mention reach the heart chamber of The Maw.

But alas, their warden seemed to be having a harder and harder time nowadays, let them slip past almost unhindered it seems. It was almost as if the consequences of them escaping was just making the matter worse.

Nothing The Bellhop could do about it, however, nothing at all. Talking can't fix everything. 

He isn't especially good at talking anyway, would've made matters worse. Better to keep ones mouth shut.

Finding the supply closet was quicker than finding a trash, twisting his back to look in the small room and root around for cleaning materials. He didn't need much, The Quarters a dark place, more prone to dust than mess, and he stuffed the bits of paper into a garbage bag, crinkling the air out of it and making it easy for him to carry around. Towels, paper and otherwise, sprays and such, a scrubbing brush that had once served in the kitchens, and a small basket to carry it all in.

Even if it was a child, they never made big messes. Not at all like their parents, at least.

Sliding the door closed, another sigh making his shoulders drop and back creak as he hunched even more, The Bellhop reoriented himself before starting to head to the elevator.

Passing a few halls, taking care to not let his footfalls be so heavy in some darker ones, snores and mumbles and other sounds ignored as he strode on. The letter had been an interruption, one that he supposed he should be grateful for in some sense; there had been a worry brought to his attention yesterday, of a tenant on the end of one of the halls.

Hasn't left his room for a few days, the elderly lady had warbled at him, fat jowls and rotund chins waving with her every word. She was not too worried, she said to him, not quite looking up at his face but seeming to be more concerned with someone overhearing her, and she wrung her hands when she started to ramble, about weather and prescriptions and shoes and stools and hospital visits. 

When she seemed out of things to explain to him, he had sighed and promised to check into the room the instant he had time. She nodded, continued to keep a wide distance from him, and went off to her social group of other old women friends. Her worry for her grandson was telling, but The Bellhop had many other pressing duties to attend to before checking in on a silent room.

The call for his service upstairs was a blessing perhaps; he was never very fond of checking on tenants who did their business aboard The Maw instead of their own homes. He'd get to it eventually, and when he did he'd not like it.

It was a good thing that The Quarters was of more importance than anything below it. He would now have time to prepare.

Still, if there was a child up there…

The Bellhop wavered in front of the elevator, straightening for a moment and rolling his shoulders, holding the basket of supplies loosely. He had to bend his back, spine clicking as he lost some height and trod into the elevator. His head brushed the elevators ceiling, raising a hand absentmindedly to grab his hat, and then he pressed a button. The machinery shuddered, slid the doors closed and started up, slower than usual as it grew accustomed to his varying weight.

Not many came up here.

It was dark, very dark and dusty in The Lady's Quarter's, only a faint glow from dim lights on the ceiling, and the elevator complained loudly as The Bellhop stepped out of it, straightening up with the higher ceiling. From there it didn't take long to see where he had to go; even from the elevator the damage was quite visible down the hall.

A light flickered overhead and The Bellhop absentmindedly fixed a crooked painting, straightening the glossy visage of an eye out before setting his basket on the table under it and turning his attention to what he had been called to clean.

Not a child then, which was good, very good. There'd be no reason to visit The Twins, since he would not have anything to give them, and that. That was good, he supposed.

Slowly bending his back, to inspect the scene a little more closely, The Bellhop sighed heavily through his nose. If he had the muscles for it he would have been frowning.

Gnomes, of course, two of them, and really they shouldn't have gone up here. He questioned their intelligence some days, but the creatures were obviously smart; they should know by now not to sneak up to this place. The poor things met a grisly fate now because of their intrusion; they were not the first, and he suspected they would not be the last.

Turning his gaze away, just as he was about to reach for the garbage bag and the other supplies, there was a small sound.

The Bellhop froze for a second, a slow shiver in his spine in holding the position, and then he looked back down next to his foot.

It was one of the gnomes. It appeared to be very much alive.

He stared at it as it gurgled roughly, small hands clawing at the wooden floorboards, before its cone head twitched upwards to him. For a moment it was almost as if it was looking at him, looking all the way up at him, and then it proceeded to make a very high pitched shriek and attempted in vain to get away.

Slowly The Bellhop squatted down, bending his back with crackling and creaking sounds to hang over the gnome and its struggles at crawling away. It wasn't making much progress, didn't seem to be fully in control of its entire body, and it squealed when The Bellhop carefully scooped it up to hold it in one hand. 

Its little hands clawed at his glove, low gibbering growls and hisses, cone moving this way and that in distress, but its lower body stayed limp and lifeless. There was no strength in its struggles, and after a moment it seemed to give up, hands tightly gripped on him and cone tail trailing downward, small chest rising and falling fast.

Terribly unfortunate, a wheezy murmur under The Bellhops breath, and he stood up, a clicking growl from the gnome as it was raised high above the ground so suddenly. He couldn't quite tell where all of its injuries were accumulated, though already the gnomes ichor was dampening his gloved hand. The moment he started to prod it was when it started thrashing about again, angry shrieks and hisses as it flailed its hands at him, though it seemed like it could not move its legs anymore. It seemed almost panicked, cone swinging about and voice rising to a higher pitched volume, and more of its oily black ichor rolled out from under its cap. It seemed to be trembling now.

Very unfortunate, The Bellhop thought to himself, standing still for a moment longer before turning to the table to grab a towel.

As he wrapped it up, ignoring its distressed complaints and firmly wrapping its arms to its sides, The Bellhop wondered what would happen if he should ever lose the use of his legs.

Probably die, he supposed.

The gnome had quieted significantly after being secured, looking almost swaddled in the towel. The Bellhop stared at it for a moment, gears turning in his head, before setting it in the basket and gathering up the cleaning supplies.

The other corpse was carefully placed inside the garbage bag, as well as the used towels and dirtied scrubbing brush once he sufficiently cleaned up the oily mess. Even with it already drying, scabbing into odd masses of paper thin black roots and strands, the mess was small enough to not spend too much time upon. Both wall and floor had to be scrutinized afterwards, to make sure there was nothing he missed, and then he turned around, swinging the lightly filled garbage bag over his shoulder.

A careful poke at the gnomes cap assured him that it was still alive, angry garbled hissing and snapping, and then he scooped up the basket and started to make his way to the elevator.

Once upon it, swaying slightly and head brushing the ceiling, The Bellhop turned his gaze down to the bundled up gnome.

It didn't look especially happy like that, but he supposed that he wouldn't be able to tell if a gnome was happy or not.

Really, he had a hard time telling if anyone was happy or not, so he shouldn't assume on such things at all. The gnome was injured and quite aggravated; he could at least be sure on that.

If it had been him, however, he didn't think he'd be angry if he just had the nasty experience of being wrapped up in withering semi alive shadows and then thrown with enough force into a wall as to break his back. 

No, he'd be upset, and probably in a large amount of pain, but not angry. That could just be him however.

He didn't think he could ever be angry at Her.

The elevator announced the next level, doors sliding open, and The Bellhop stepped out, the gnome gurgling fitfully as it and its basket swayed with his steps. He had to take care of the garbage bag and its contents, that was important, but he still didn't know the extent of the injuries on the gnome. It could very well just die, suddenly and without warning, and he'd rather it did not do that.

His efforts in saving it would then be ruined and he'd have wasted his time; if it died now, then he should have just put it out of its misery upstairs. A boot brought down quick enough on its cap would be a better alternative than slowly suffocating on its own ichor and distressing itself into shock as it struggled in vain to move even an inch forward.

Deciding quite suddenly, The Bellhop changed direction without missing a step, going through an empty hall and down a small flight of stairs. The ambient sounds were quiet, very quiet, but the gnome must have picked them up, now totally silent in its basket. Carefully stepping past a hall filled with inhabited rooms, loud snoring and honks fading behind him, The Bellhop made his way to a particularly empty chamber deeper down and then under the guest filled rooms. The floorboards above crealed every once in awhile with activity, but he ignored the sounds and proceeded to open one of the rooms in the circle chamber.

Its creak was a loud and obscuring forewarning, but even still the patter of feet and low gurgles of voice spilled from the dark furniture stuffed room. The door didn't open all the way, blocked by a stack of teetering wooden boxes, but enough light poured in to show dust billow up, as well as sparks of pale color as caps raced about for somewhere to hide.

The Bellhop cleared his throat, proceeded to fight the urge to cough, and then carefully set the basket and its occupant down upon the dusty floor. The swaddled gnome was silent for a moment before chirping, rough and marked with some sort of feeling that The Bellhop could not quite recognize but could quite plainly hear. A second didn't even pass before an answering chirp sounded, a quick patter of feet as a pale gnome emerged from the shadows and raced up to the basket, not even glancing up at The Bellhops looming visage.

From there it was all twittering and hissing and low gurgles, the new gnomes hands deftly pulling the towel away from its injured companion and clasping their hands together, warbling the entire time.

Almost like bird song, The Bellhop thought, almost. But not quite. 

It did seem as if the situation was under control, more of the twittering creatures emerging from the shadows of old stuffed away furniture and storage to help drag the injured gnome out of the basket. It still leaked ichor from its cap, still couldn't hold its weight or move at all even, but its rough voice was just as loud and excited as the rest of them.

Not moving too fast but not too slow either, The Bellhop bent down and scooped up the empty basket, a few gnomes letting out scatter hisses and swinging their cones upwards at his invading presence. Mostly he was ignored however, and thus The Bellhop carefully closed the door, shutting the room back into its stuffy, dusty darkness.

Not silence, however. No, even from out here, he can hear their sing song like chirping and twittering.

Not like birds at all, he thought, and then The Bellhop proceeded back upwards, to take care of the garbage bag and its messy contents. 

Later, after disposing of the corpse and its roots of ichor strands, after cleaning the supplies and thus putting them away, after rounding backwards to the room at the end of the hall that he had been requested to check in on, after finding the key and having to open the room when no tenant responded, after looking up and then sighing heavily and then turning away to look for a knife and cart and sheet, after cleaning the room of any evidence of its former inhabitant and slipping a small note into the grandmother's room, The Bellhop made it back into his own room.

Before the light even came on, however, something moved in the dark. The Bellhop froze, stiff and watching the darkness, before a shiver made its way up his spine and he relaxed, reaching up a hand to turn on the light.

He shouldn't fear the dark, not here.

The thing was in the middle of his room, very plain and not at all attempting to hide, and it slowly turned its tooth embedded mouth to look at him, slimy tar skinned body shiny under the light.

The leech was bloated, very bloated, and it trembled as it stared at him eyelessly, blackened thin skin pulsing and oozing tar. After a moment, The Bellhop gazing down at it and waiting, there was a sudden drop in temperature, the air growing cold.

The light dimmed, if only for a moment, and then it was gone, the dark presence taking the cold with it.

The leech then proceeded to spasm, fat slug body seizing before it raised its mouth and neck and started to vomit onto the floor.

The Bellhop, if he had the facial muscles, would have had a look of disgust. Now he had another mess to clean, just when he had thought he was done for tonight.

Whatever was making the leech bloat seemed to give it some trouble, toothy mouth gagging up tar and ichor of varying thickness before its body heaved, finally expelling a large amount of...something.

Chunks of something, marred by the black oil, and The Bellhop resolutely ignored the traces of small hands and pale cap, waiting for the damn thing to finish up. He did want to sleep tonight, if only for an hour or so, but he would need to clean this up to have access to his room. It was already starting to stink, fumes of cloying rot and sulfur and digestive juices.

The leech withered in its own mess for a moment, still heaving and choking up glops of who know what, before it gave a final spasm, vomited up a line of its own dark glistening insides, and then falling limp and hollow.

A moment of silence, and The Bellhop sighed, shoulders sagging. He supposed She disapproved then. He wondered if She thought him to be going soft.

Perhaps he was.

Not a good thing, not a good thing at all.


End file.
